


Acculturation

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: The Salt Mine [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, awkward confrontation, siblingcest, social graces your name is not Madara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 14:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19111519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: The questions Madara has regarding the nature of Hashirama's relationship with his brother should never be aired, never given voice, even in these twilight hours when the rest of the Tower’s denizens have left for the day.There’s no socially appropriate way to bring up…that.





	Acculturation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the [2019 Naruto Rare Pair Bingo](https://naruto-rarepair-bingo.tumblr.com/) event taking place over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Board A, "Family."

The doors to the Hokage’s office rattle in their frames under the force of Madara’s temper. It took all day to build up the courage to face this situation headlong instead of letting it linger. He will have answers this time. There will be no evasion, no honeyed words meant to distract him.

The Senju brothers will answer for what they’ve done.

“What exactly is going on here?” he snarls, privacy seals activating with an instinctive flurry of hand signs as he kicks the doors shut.

Hashirama blinks up owlishly from where he’s lounging in a half sprawl on the couch reserved for visiting dignitaries. “Talking about perennials?” he answers slowly and without conviction. His haori gapes wide around a loosened obi, and Madara quickly averts his eyes from the line of exposed chest.

Everything about Hashirama is indecent—too casual with touch, too open with his praise, too ready to expose his already sun-kissed skin. It’s unsettling.

“That’s not what I meant,” he snaps at the adjacent wall, looking anywhere else. “This, what is this?”

Behind his desk, Tobirama glances up at the tight set of Madara’s shoulders and the way he gesticulates rapidly between him and his brother, then gently places his brush down. He plucks his reading glasses off and viciously rubs at his eyes.

“If you cannot use your words, you may leave, Uchiha. There is work to be done that does not involve your social inadequacies,” he states, voice gruff in his annoyance.

Madara grabs at his own hair and makes an inarticulate noise, half-way between a whine and a death rattle. The questions he has should never be aired, never given voice, even in these twilight hours when the rest of the Tower’s denizens have left for the day.

There’s no socially appropriate way to bring up…that.

“What. Is. This,” he finally manages, jabbing his finger towards Hashirama’s chest and casually spread legs as if that one gesture alone explains everything. And for him, it does.

Tobirama sighs explosively. “Brother’s loose kosode? Yes, truly a cause for national concern. A state so dire that you must interrupt the Nara draft to confront us both with your inanities. However will this travesty be rectified?”

The snide tone settles like a stone in Madara’s craw and gives him the push he needs. Anger is a familiar bedfellow and a potent driving force to overcome the heat high on his cheeks.

“It’s not just the Sage-damned clothing, Senju!” he roars.

Hashirama pipes up, strangely quiet throughout the whole display. “Madara, are you o—”

Madara cuts him off with a pointed swipe of his hand, storming over to Tobirama’s desk and leaning his weight onto his fists. The wood creaks slightly under his bulk, barely contained chakra lashing beneath lambskin gloves.

“It’s the _touching_ ,” he says, face turning puce. “It’s the way no matter where you are, you two find some reason to have your hands all over each other. A wrist, neck, back, thigh, _something_. And if you’re not close enough for that, there’s this thing you do with your eyes, like you’re courting with the Sharingan.”

He pauses—realizing that Tobirama will likely have no idea what prospective Uchiha spouses do in the relative privacy of their family homes—and quickly changes tracks.

“And the constant impropriety. There’s never a full kimono between the two of you after hours. You in particular, Senju; you constantly dress down in those tight fitting shirts and throw yourself all over Hashirama’s desk, displaying yourself like a—” Madara sputters, eyes wild as he tries to find an appropriate word, “—like a _courtesan_.”

The desk groans in relief when he lets go with one hand just long enough to jab his finger against the pale v of Tobirama’s neckline for emphasis.

“Uchiha,” Tobirama warns, slapping the offending hand away. Before he can continue, Madara finally rallies his mettle enough to ask the question that’s been haunting him for the past three weeks.

“Are you and your brother fucking?”

The room falls silent and still.

Too pale to properly blanch, Tobirama buries his face into the palm of one hand and takes a deep, bracing inhale. After a moment of listening to Madara’s teeth grind and the air whoosh from his flared nostrils, his lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.

From the couch, Hashirama has no such compulsion to hide his amusement. The tension in the room shatters beneath the force of his hearty guffaws. Head thrown back, he laughs and laughs until tears begin to stream and his stomach aches with it.

Finally, Tobirama succumbs to the pull of a lopsided smirk, one delicate eyebrow rising.

“So, because I touch my brother and abstain from using what you deem to be appropriate seating, you believe Anija and I are intimate,” he summarizes slowly, savoring each word. 

Now that he’s said his piece, Madara wilts under the weight of precisely how idiotic his accusations sound. Everything seemed to lead up to one conclusion in his mind, something so heinous that he wouldn’t have even considered it if the signs weren’t so obvious.

When praying for the Susnoo to devour him on the spot fails to deliver him from his shame, he resorts to bullying on.

“Yes?”

Linen swishes behind him, and Hashirama is up, patting him on the shoulder. “What the hell, Madara?” he asks, still chuckling.

Warmth suffuses Madara’s arm and cheeks both. He is a fool. An absolute fool. This is simply the way of his friend. He’s a large man with a larger heart and absolutely no body shame to speak of.

Of course he would act _even more_ _familiar_ with the brother of his blood.

They lock eyes and there’s nothing but laugh lines and easy cheer there, none of the deep-forest darkness that creeps in when he’s genuinely upset or through playacting the buffoon. Madara tenses nonetheless.

“Hashirama, I—” he begins, only to be cut off by a firm squeeze.

“It’s okay, we’re not upset,” Hashirama admits easily. “I mean, that was the most awkward thing ever, but still, not as big a deal as you think. Here, let me show you.”

The trepidation that comes with being thrust into an unfamiliar situation has Madara leaning away and crossing his arms over his chest. He opens his mouth to ask what precisely that means, then promptly snaps it shut. He’s dug enough holes for one night.  

Tobirama shifts his stool back with a jarring squeal. “Is this really necessary?” he drawls, rolling his eyes.

“Yup!” Hashirama chirps. His bare feet slap the floor slats in his haste as he abandons Madara’s side to slide up behind his brother. His hands settle there, large enough to make Tobirama’s shoulders appear small. When he looks back at Madara, the puckish twinkle in his eye hasn’t diminished in the least.

“You shouldn’t worry so much. Tobi is my baby brother, my sweet Otouto. I wouldn’t do that to him,” he pronounces as if that should answer all of Madara’s questions.

It does, even if Madara would never ascribe the word ‘sweet’ to the frigid Senju. He breathes both a literal and proverbial sigh of relief and lets his eyes slip shut. It’s nice to have his fears quashed by that one simple admission of familial love. After all, he cares for Izuna just as fiercely, if not anywhere near as tactilely. Or publicly.

This is no different, merely a misinterpretation.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place to assume.”

When he opens his eyes to face the fallout of his ill-planned intervention, he chokes.

Hashirama watches him like a mountain cat, unblinking as he cradles Tobirama’s face and bends low.

“No problem. I mean, it’s easy to think that, I guess. But what we do isn’t fucking. I love my Tobi too much to use him like that.” Hashirama’s words are crooned, low and reverent—only half-meant for Madara.

“We only ever make love.”

Chakra reflexively builds behind Madara’s eyes at the shock of it and before he realizes, he’s watching his best friend and Hokage suck on his own brother’s neck in crystal clarity. Tan skin contrasted by near-white—nomadic kisses pulling up pink blooms like mokuton flowers. The waterfall of Hashirama’s hair does absolutely nothing to hide the added glint of teeth on skin.

Words abandon him, stuck behind the thickness in his throat.

Tobirama arches to expose more of that long line of neck to his brother’s ministrations, studying Madara’s reactions closely. There’s a sharp inhale as Hashirama does something involving tongue that makes Tobirama’s eyelids flutter before he pulls back.

“We care for each other dearly, so you don’t need to worry,” Hashirama reiterates, as if the semantics of word choice was the only issue here.

Madara sputters, lost somewhere between horror and twisted fascination. As wrong as all of this is, as much as he should purify the entire tower with a katon jutsu, there’s something arresting and quite beautiful about the picture they make. Tobirama with his svelte chest exposed under Hashirama’s hands, the glimpses of a growing bulge in Hashirama’s hakama as he rolls his hips and not-so-subtly frots against the divot of his brother’s spine.

“These things are not so taboo among the Senju,” Tobirama explains, rocking slightly on his stool. “You would be aware of this had you read the report I submitted upon the first phase of planning the village’s zoning. Our cultures are very different.”

“Very different,” Madara repeats slowly, unable to look away. Tobirama’s lips appear fuller, less severe when shaped around a gasp, he realizes, horrified by his own thoughts. 

“You’re looking a bit pale. You should probably sit down,” Hashirama says, voice low and thick. He nods his head towards the abandoned couch as he teases Tobirama’s nipples into tight peaks beneath his thumbs. “We’ll show you why you don’t have to worry—why this isn’t just _fucking_.” The emphasis he adds at the end is absolutely filthy. 

The purr in his tone is enough to bring Madara back to himself. He staggers back a couple of steps and forcibly cuts off the chakra flow to his eyes. Words crowd his mouth, denial and too-truthful admissions both. It’s only the reflexive slap of leather against his lips—and he’ll be sending up prayers to the Sage for having the forethought not to remove his gloves for the evening—that keeps him from blurting out things that he can never be unsaid.

“Hmm, I think we broke the Uchiha clan head,” Tobirama observes airily. The warmth of his brother’s hand slips between the folds of linen around his waist and boldly follows the trail of course hair downwards. Another few centimeters and his breath hitches.

Madara’s eyes lock on the obvious tent, unable to look away from the long, smooth strokes happening beneath the fabric of Tobirama’s too-tight pants. There’s little left to the imagination in the act. His Sharingan sputters in and out of activation rapidly. He wheezes.

It’s too much.

The passion of their slow, deep kisses and tangled bodies is _entirely too much_. For the first time since he came to the age of majority, Madara retreats from the battle front.

Blushing furiously, he runs.

Hashirama snorts when the office doors close with a cacophonous slam. “He’ll get over it,” he announces, all longsuffering positivity.

“You—ah—you know him best, Anija,” Tobirama admits, caring little one way or the other at the moment. The heat of Hashirama’s clever mouth is a welcome and familiar sensation along the shell of his ear. So too is the telling urgency in the rutting against his back.  

It won’t be long before they wind up on the sofa for the second time this evening.

“And just think of what fun it’ll be showing him what it means to be treated like family,” Hashirama presses. He punctuates his sunny statement with a particularly skilled twist of his wrist.  

Shivering, Tobirama runs his fingers through Hashirama’s hair and tugs him closer. He turns to devour any further comment with teeth and tongue, lips tight against his brother’s from the force of a barely contained grin.

Fun indeed.


End file.
